For sweet love's sake I pray thee take this little knot of blue, this little knot of blue.
It only shows the love that glows within thy heart so true.
But shouldst thou find that Love is unkind, grieve not, o lovely maid, grieve not, grieve not.
For winds will blow and tears will flow before love's debt is paid.
For sweet love's sake I pray thee take this little knot of blue.—

I ask but this, yet one more kiss while twilight lingers by.
No one will see or care if we thus say our sweet "goodbye."
I ask but this, but this, just one more, one more, love.
The stars above won't look at us, the stars above won't look at us, sweetheart.
And they'll not tell, they'll not tell.
They know full well, they know full well, how all fond lovers part.

after Peter Cornelius (1824-1874)

Birdling's flying to his nest, wings are weary roaming.
Boats are sailing home to rest from the ocean's moaning.
Twilight soothes the sun to sleep. Far has he been coming.
Now he sinks in heaven's bed in the crimson gloaming.
Birdling rests in his warm nest, boats at anchor rocking.
Fast asleep is now the sun. Hush my darlings's nodding.
Hush my darling's nodding, nodding. Hush, hush.—

Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
From the shadow through the moonlight,
In the forest's deepest glades,
Dainty dances often have we,
Dainty dances often have we,
In the midnight's balmy shades.
From the shadow through the moonlight
In the forest's deepest glades,
In the midnight's balmy shades.

Flower fairies, proud, frail mockers
Call us ugly, hairy imps.
Could we snare ye in our circle,
Could we catch ye with our magic,
Could we catch ye with our magic,

Then gay flaunters would we teach ye
How all true love conquers kind.
Our long beards and "ugly" noddles
Would be lovely to your mind,
Would be lovely to your mind.

Ha! laugh on, ye willful hussies.
Play your pranks on other guys!
Play your pranks on other guys!
While the moonbeams light our gambols,
Can we live without your eyes,
Without your eyes.

Mockers call us ugly, ugly,
Ugly, ugly, ugly, ugly,
Ugly, hairy imps!

—

from Verses by Edward MacDowell (1908):

Dance of Gnomes

From the shadow through the moonlight,
In the forest's deepest glades,
Dainty dances often have we
In the midnight's balmy shades.

This poem version has a rhyming line
that is missing from the song version.

In sunlight and shadow through forest and field,
Laughing and crying, softly sighing,
A tiny stream shallow runs on, on, on, on.
From streamlet to river till lost in the ocean,
Dreaming of love, of strife, of devotion,
So runs our life, ends our life of emotion.
Ah! Ah! Ah!—

Frozen is the ground. The stream's ice-bound.
Softly the north wind croons, softly croons.
Drowsy, sleepily falls the snow
As the frost king carves his runes, carves his runes.
Misty dreamland's moonlit strand
Awaits the coming guest, 'waits the guest.
The pine logs smoulder as soft on my shoulder
A flaxen head sinks to rest, sinks to rest.
Misty dreamland's moonlit strand
Awaits the guest.

Notice how "Slumber Song" is related to the two poems
by Edward MacDowell shown. See also a later song version
of "Slumber Song" in Two Old Songs, op. 9 (1894).

—

from Verses by Edward MacDowell (1908):

From the North

Frozen the ground,
The stream ice-bound,
Softly the North wind croons:
Drowsily, sleepily,
The snow doth fall,
As the frost king carves his runes.

After the snow,
From Thor's hammer, a blow,
Will make the sky blaze with light.
Walhalla's flaming,
Waxing and waning,
Will gleam through the dark blue night.

The robin sings in the apple tree, the blackbird swings on the thorn.
The day grows old and silence falls, leaving my heart forlorn.
Night brings rest to many a soul, yet mine is dark with woe.
Can I forget the days gone by when my love I whispered low?
O robin, and thou blackbird brave, my songs of love have died.
How could you sing as in byegone days, when she was by my side!—

after Goethe (1749-1832)

Silver clouds are lightly sailing through the drowsy, trembling air,
And the golden summer sunshine casts a glory everywhere.
Softly sob and sigh the billows as they dream in shadows sweet,
And the swaying reeds and rushes kiss the mirror at their feet.—

W. D. Howells (1837-1920)

Is it the shrewd October wind brings the tears into her eyes?
Does it blow so strong that she must fetch her breath in sudden sighs?
The sound of his horse's feet grows faint, grows faint, grows faint.
The rider has passed from sight, has passed, has passed from sight.
The day dies out of the crimson west, and coldly falls the night.
She presses her tremulous fingers tight against her closed eyes,
And on the lonesome threshold there she cowers down and cries.—

Noonday sun or night have for me one light.
Love shines in it bright, through deep brown eyes.
Scoffers tell a tale that love grows pale,
That love grows pale, that brown eyes fail.
Ah, how wise! ah, how wise!
Surely true love's might puts such fears to flight.
In those brown eyes bright love never dies!
In those brown eyes love never dies, love never dies!
In those brown eyes love never dies!—

The west wind croons in the cedar trees, the goldenrod nods by the lea,
And Maud there's love in your bonny black eyes; can it be meant for me?
The west wind dies in the cedar trees, the goldenrod droops by the lea,
And Maud there's scorn in your merry black eyes; surely not meant for me!
The east wind moans in the cedar trees, the goldenrod's dead by the lea,
And Maud you may glance with your cruel black eyes; winter has come for me.—

after Goethe (1749-1832)

In the woods at eve I wandered, through the sunset's crimson light.
In the woods, in the woods at eve, there sat Damon playing softly on the flute for my delight.
So, la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la la.

W. D. Howells (1837-1920)

One sails away to sea, to sea, one stands on the shore and cries.
The ship goes down the world, and the light on the sullen water dies.
The whispering shell is mute, and after is evil cheer.
She shall stand on the shore and cry in vain, in vain, many and many a year.
But the stately wide-winged ship lies wrecked, lies wrecked on the unknown deep.
Far under, dead in his coral bed, the lover lies asleep.
Far under, dead in his coral bed, the lover lies asleep, asleep.—

W. D. Howells (1837-1920)

The summer sun was soft and bland,
As they went through the meadow land.
Across the stream was scarce a step,
And yet she feared to try the leap,
And he to still her sweet alarm,
Must lift her over on his arm.

She could not keep the narrow way,
For still the little feet would stray,
And ever must he bend t'undo
The tangled grasses from her shoe,
From dainty rosebed lips in pout,
Must kiss the perfect flower out!

Ah! little coquette! Fair deceit!
Some things are bitter that were sweet.
Ah! ah! little coquette!
Some things are bitter that were sweet.

Oft hae I roved by bonnie Doon to see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o' its love; and sae did I o' mine, o' mine.
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause lover staw the rose, but left the thorn wi' me.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird that sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days when my fause Luve was true, was true, was true.—

The lyrics are based on this poem by Thomas Moore (1779-1852):

Hush, Hush

"Hush, hush!"--how well
That sweet word sounds,
When Love, the little sentinel,
Walks his night-rounds;
Then, if a foot but dare
One rose-leaf crush,
Myriads of voices in the air
Whisper, "Hush, hush!"

"Hark, hark, 'tis he!"
The night elves cry,
And hush their fairy harmony,
While he steals by;
But if his silvery feet
One dew-drop brush,
Voices are heard in chorus sweet,
Whispering, "Hush, hush!"—

Onward still, though the heart be burned to dust,
On towards the holy grave.
Woe to ye! Saracen pagans of the East,
Bend thy souls to save.
O, thou desert's burning strand,
Flaming crescent's arid land,
Thou art but a grain of sand
In the hollow of God's hand.
God with us!

Youth, grace and love attendant move,
And pleasure leads the van:
In a' their charms and conquering arms,
They wait on bonie Ann.
The captive bands may chain the hands,
But loove enslaves the man:
Ye gallants braw, I red you a',
Beware o' bonie Ann.—

The lyrics are similar to this poem in Verses by Edward MacDowell (1908):

A Ballad of Charles the Bold

Duke Charles rode forth at early dawn
Through drifting morning mists,
His armour frosted by the dew
Gleamed sullenly defiance.
Silently the Duke did ride
And idly clanked his sword,
But woe to him who caught his eye,
For Death led forth his charger.
All day long the battle raged.
And spirits mingles with the mist
That wreathed the warring knights:
Caressed the mailed heroes
And numbed their freezing wounds,
Till dull grey, stained with crimson.
Seemed flushed with tropic sunshine,
And Death lulled warm to rest.
But Charles, thou mighty Duke
That rodest forth at morn,
Ah! Charles, Death brought no peace to thee,
To thee who dies that day,
For King Louis sits alone —
And counts thine all his very own:
And now he lords o'er Burgundy
And grips thy heart-strings yet,
Louis of France and Burgundy Rex,
King Louis reigns alone.
God rest thee, Charles.—

A maid sings light, and a maid sings low,
With a merry, merry laugh in her eyes of sloe.
I tell thee lad, have a care, nor dare,
Lest thou lose thy heart in the fair one's snare.

And doth she pout, and doth she sigh,
And doth she pout, and doth she sigh.
Ne'er go too close, nor dry her eye,
Too close, not dry her eye.
I tell thee lad, have a care, she's fair.
She'll surely laugh thy prayer to air.

For a maid loves light, and a maid loves so,
That a merry, merry laugh will answer thy woe.
I tell thee lad, have a care, nor dare,
Lest thou lose thy heart in the fair one's snare.—

Sunrise gilds the crested sea
That mocks grim Oban's might.
But at his feet sways sullenly
A ship that died 'the night.
The ocean's breast doth throb no more
For such a wreck as she.
The rocks gnaw at her broken heart.
The sun shines pit'lessly.—

Fair Springtide cometh once again,
Stirs the sap in lonely trees,
To wake again the bitter joy
Of love that mortal eye ne'er sees.

The bitter joy of love.
Why waken those who sleep so sound?
Why cause again the tears to flow?
Ah Springtide, thou dost touch the quick
Of ev'ry creature here below.
Ah Springtide, ah Springtide,
Why waken those who sleep so sound
And cause the tears to flow?

Yet though the tears be bittersweet,
They come like soothing Summer rain,
And lo! the mournful desert heart
Grows green with lovelorn pain again.—